Only Assholes Live in Brooklyn We look at photographs of French bulldogs b/c we are bored & it is midnight & we don't cry when we're sad. I’m here to make you lonely in the drain of my shower a child’s heart is clogged like a bad decision I swallow it. Water drifts my pubic hairs in a crooked line each hair will be shaved never to know yr name yr body will do most of the work. The End of the Universe Is An Empty Gin Bottle all animals but one closeted in black holes across space; before living I was we, canoeing around the rings of Saturn then fell into life to rise out atoms ripped apart one-by-one; summon your body of performance. If Your Body Is a Church, What Is Its God? S told me, there are far worse things. Something above me rises like a tunnel over me, hot but not sweaty, wasn’t taught lessons, felt enormous, my throat closes. I said nothing. One of us felt grateful. Maybe my body is broken. I say, show me. There is a hole now instead of anything else. I’m not sure if I am in this hole. I ask S if he dug this hole and he doesn’t answer. His jaw is small like an ant. His shoulders dig and dig and dig. He says something about a home. It’s the only thing I understand. Our bodies are turning into holes. I believe the holes are forever. What is forever? Forever is the church my parents took me to as a child and I’d stare at the giant portrait of Jesus, until his eyes became tunnels became holes until I believed in some kind of forever but there wasn’t my consent. One definition of forever is for all future time but I don’t know what the future is. I store forever outside of my body, outside of my hole and S told me about that time he painted houses with his hands and he said, they were different hands then and now they’re holes that go on forever like the paint and all the paintings and it was a kind of heaven that I only made once. I could feel his fingers around my neck, inside my skull, something bleeding out of me like paint. And he could make it hundreds and hundreds of times.
August 16, 2016